


Run Boy Run

by withthekeyisking



Series: In the Game [3]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mob, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Batfam Week, Batfam Week 2020, Batfamily (DCU), Cage Fights, Crime Boss Bruce Wayne, Dark Dick Grayson, Dark Jason Todd, Dark Tim Drake, Gen, Glorified Violence, Graphic Description, Mafia Batfamily (DCU), Murder, Poisoning, Psychopathology & Sociopathy, Young Dick Grayson, Young Jason Todd, Young Tim Drake, podfic available!, the Batfam is a CrimeFam in the making
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-09
Updated: 2020-03-09
Packaged: 2021-02-22 14:08:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22717264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withthekeyisking/pseuds/withthekeyisking
Summary: How three boys came to be the adopted sons of one of the most powerful criminals in Gotham.
Relationships: Tim Drake & Dick Grayson & Jason Todd
Series: In the Game [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1376995
Comments: 92
Kudos: 816
Collections: Tales from the Cave





	Run Boy Run

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the Woodkid song
> 
> This fic exists in my [In the Game](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1376995) Batfm Mafia AU 'verse!
> 
> Day 2: Hurt/Comfort | Underappreciated Family Member | **Dark Batfam AU**

Dick Grayson isn't a moron. He knows what CC Haly's Traveling Circus really is, what they really do. But it's never affected his life too much, so he just doesn't care.

Well, he doesn't care until it's responsible for his parents' death.

John and Mary Grayson were good people, a rarity in a place like Haly's. Dick's never understood why they stayed, why they would continue their trapeze act and raise their son in a place so clearly not on the up and up. Dick always had the theory that Haly—or, by extension, Haly's employer—had something on his parents, but they never seemed important enough to Dick to warrant watching. Would gaining an acrobatic act really be enough to blackmail two people for years?

Maybe. Dick supposes it doesn't much matter, never has, especially not anymore.

Whatever the reason they stayed, they're dead now. And the strange thing is...Dick probably could've stopped it.

He saw Haly arguing with that man in the suit, Haly looking anxious and the other man looking murderous. He heard the man threaten Haly to do as he was told, Haly's rebellious response about breaking away, the man's bigger threat about harm to his people.

Then Dick saw the man by the trapeze set.

He had time to say something. His parents walked around none the wiser, unaware that they were pawns in a larger game, and Dick was...well, he was _curious_ really. He'd never seen the behind-the-scenes things before; never seen the conversations that lead to people's deaths, never seen how the decision of who lives and who dies happens. He wanted to see it all the way through. Who knew whenever he'd next get the chance!

And, well, it's not like he _wanted_ his parents to die. He'll miss his mom's singing, and his dad's storytelling. But he's also...not _opposed_ to the idea either.

He watches them fall, and he screams because it comes naturally, and he mourns them because he feels it the loss, but all of that fades very quickly. It doesn't feel that important. Or, it _does,_ but he's moved on. Probably faster than normal people, but ah well.

One does not grow up in an international smuggling ring and turn out _normal._

By the time the nice policeman drapes a blanket around his shoulders, Dick's feeling pretty good again, the grief in the past. Mary and John were good people, good parents, and now they're gone. And that's all there is to it.

"It's for the shock," the policeman says, brow furrowed, when Dick questions the necessity of the blanket. Not that he's ungrateful; it's a tad chilly, and his costume isn't all that well insulated.

"What shock?" Dick asks in reply. He doesn't feel shocked; he knew it was going to happen, and it's been about twenty minutes since they fell, so he's had time to process.

The policeman smiles sadly and pats him on the shoulder. "It's what's stopping you from feeling all of this, kid."

He walks away before Dick can decide whether or not he wants to explain that he already felt it all, he's okay, and he'd like to go get something to eat now if that's alright. He doesn't think those statements would be appreciated, though. The policeman seems like a regular person, a _nice_ one, and might not like Dick's ambivalence.

Another policeman helps Dick pack up his things and then drives him to an orphanage, and then to a juvenile center because of something about overcrowding. Dick doesn't pay attention, really.

He doesn't intend to stay long, anyway.

He might've allowed his parents to be killed, might've moved past the mourning already, but they were still his parents—he can't just let their murder _go,_ can he? He has to get payback, or revenge, or justice, or whatever. The wording doesn't matter, just the action.

He knows who the man in the suit was—Tony Zucco, a small fish in a big pond who thinks very highly of himself. Any time the circus was in Gotham, Zucco would show up, exchange a few words with Haly, envelopes changing hands and then a few crates of material.

CC Haly's Traveling Circus is one of the most elaborate and effective smuggling rings in the world, not to brag, and Haly has business partners in all major cities. He pays each of them off to not bother the circus while in their territory—Zucco was acting as representative for the major mob family in Gotham. From what Dick gathered in that short conversation before the trapeze was sabotaged, apparently Haly was trying to pull out of that arrangement.

Explains why Zucco decided to make an example of two of Haly's people. What's funny is that Zucco chose the two people who _weren't_ criminals, out of everyone involved.

So, Dick has his target. It doesn't take him long to track Zucco down—he man is _not_ subtle—but from there he...doesn't _waver,_ exactly, but he... _pauses._

Because he's never actually killed anyone before, let along someone twice his size. (Mutilated, yes, but the touchy priest had it coming.) He has no idea how he's going to do this.

Turns out, Zucco decides to do most of the work for him.

Dick follows the man for an entire day, rolling his eyes as the man picks up a prostitute, then another, and another, as if Dick believes the bastard could still get it up after that long. The man does some work for his boss along the way, and then 10pm has Zucco in a bar, drinking the night away.

He's there for hours, stumbling out just past two in the morning. He's drunk off his ass, that's as clear as day, and grumbles at his drinking buddies to leave him alone as he stumbles into an alley to piss.

It's like he's _gift wrapped_ for Dick.

Dick creeps silently into the alley behind him, dagger clasped in his hand; he swiped it from the swordsmaster at the circus before he left, and he knows how to use it. Though usually _knowing how to use it_ hasn't involved actually _killing someone,_ but he'll figure it out.

Zucco finishes and leans tiredly against the brick alley wall, his cock still hanging out of his pants, and Dick debates if he wants to have an Inigo Montoya moment, before deciding that no, no he does not.

He's a performer at heart, but he'd rather make sure he actually kills Zucco than give the man a chance to escape.

So he moves quickly, efficiently. He steps forward, drags the knife across Zucco's neck, and quickly steps back to try to avoid the spray. He didn't quite hit the carotid, and he doesn't completely manage to avoid the copious amounts of blood, but for a first attempt, he's pretty proud of himself.

It's...beautiful, and _powerful._ Watching Zucco bleed out and die, from a wound _Dick_ caused—god, no wonder Zucco was so quick to kill his parents if this was the rush he got from doing it. Dick feels like his entire body is on fire, alight with this newfound power.

He smiles as Zucco slumps against the wall and drops to the ground, gurgling on his own blood. His eyes are wide, panicked, gaping up at Dick, silently begging. Dick finds that he likes that expression quite a bit. The fear, the pain—it makes him swallow, captivated, desperate to memorize every inch.

And then Zucco is dead, nothing more than a cooling carcass on the ground of a dirty alleyway, and Dick is alive. Is so very, _very_ alive. For the first time in his life, an emotion doesn't just linger but gets stronger, every molecule of his being floating, _glowing,_ tingling with pleasure. He wants this feeling to last forever.

He wants to kill again, to reignite his soul, to never let it extinguish.

He gives himself thirty more seconds to just stare, to memorize every aspect of the artwork in front of him, and then he tucks his bloody hands into his coat pockets and leaves the alley, sneaking back into that stupid juvenile center. He wonders if any of them even noticed he was gone for more than twenty-four hours. Probably, considering most of the kids there were not exactly upstanding citizens, and required watching.

It's not like he intends to stay at the center long, anyway. This is just until he comes up with another plan.

He scrubs his hands and cleans the knife, then crawls into his bunk like nothing was out of the ordinary. He goes to sleep smiling.

The next day, a spluttering guard notices him, but doesn't yell—probably too embarrassed about how a skinny nine-year-old managed to get in and out without being noticed. Dick just smirks back.

He stays at the center the next few days, snatching wallets and watches here and there, building up his stash of money and things to pawn. A couple of the other boys pick fights with him, and Dick might be smaller but he's _smarter_ than them, he's _always_ smarter, so he wins and wins and _wins._

On the fourth day, Dick gets brought to the warden's office. When the door opens, he sees the pot-bellied man standing off to the side and an unfamiliar man sitting behind his desk, hands clasped in his lap, legs crossed.

He observes Dick with a detached, inquisitive expression, like Dick is a vague curiosity for the man. His gaze doesn't waver as Dick is ushered forward and into the seat across from the desk, and then, after a while of tense silent, the man says to the warden, "Thank you, Mr. Blake."

The warden thanks him in return and rushes for the door. Dick watches him go curiously, examining the fear on the grown man's face, and wonders who it is that he's dealing with. Wonders if the man behind the desk enjoys causing the fear on the warden's face as much as Dick enjoyed it on Zucco's.

The man behind the desk wears an expensive suit, a fine coat draped over the back of his chair. He carries an air of natural power, like it's threaded into every piece of him, and Dick stares back evenly, waiting.

"You're the Grayson boy," the man says eventually, a casual observation. It's clearly something he already knows, and so Dick just nods silently in unnecessary confirmation.

Then they just stare at each other for a long moment. There's something about the man, about the hyper-focus in his sharp eyes, that makes Dick's heartbeat pick up just a little, anticipation thick in the air.

Dick licks his lips, excited. A corner of the man's mouth quirks up for barely a second.

"What kind of knife did you use?" he asks.

Dick's eyes widen. "I—what?"

The quirk gets bigger. His eyes, however, don't change. Calm, dark, dispassionate. Slightly intrigued. "With Anthony Zucco," he clarifies. "Sloppy stroke across the neck, but I suppose that can be forgiven considering you're nine years old and half the man's size. Plus I'm pretty sure it's the first time you've ever killed a man. Your hands didn't shake, though. That's very good."

"How do you know that?" Dick asks quietly. It's pointless to deny at this point. He wonders if this is some kind of detective, that Dick's about to be arrested for the murder. He doesn't _feel_ like a detective, not even slightly.

"I've seen enough slashed throats to be able to tell if a person's hand shook when they did it," the man tells him. "Why did you kill him?"

"He killed my parents," Dick says. Simple as that; no anger, no pain. He's over it by this point. John and Mary Grayson were good people, and now they're gone. So is Zucco. Time to move on.

The man hums, looking Dick over. "So it was revenge?"

"It was necessary," Dick says immediately, and he finds that it's true. "He killed them, I wasn't going to do _nothing._ Now it's even."

"Do you like things being even?"

Dick considers. Decides very passionately on, "No." Doesn't elaborate.

The man smiles at him, amused. It's a bit of a condescending expression, but Dick doesn't much mind. "Necessary," the man echoes, rolling the word around in his mouth, considering it himself. "What do you feel about your parents' deaths, Richard?"

Dick frowns. "What do I _feel?"_ The man nods, waiting. "I..." He shrugs a shoulder. "Nothing."

The man raises an eyebrow. "Continue."

Dick purses his lips. "I mean, I let it happen." The man blinks, surprised. "I saw Zucco sabotage the trapeze, I had time to warn my parents. But I was curious about what would happen. And...Well, I was sad that they were dead, really I was."

"Was?" the man asks.

Dick shrugs a shoulder again. "It happened, I screamed, I mourned, and then I moved past it. Emotions move quickly for me. They're dead—what's the point in crying about it? Zucco's dead, too, which is..." A satisfied smile curves Dick's lips upward, eyelids fluttering as he pictures the fear, hears the choked off whines. "Good. So, what I _feel_ about my parents' death is nothing."

Again, the man watches him. It makes Dick feel a little bit like a bug under a microscope, but he holds the gaze, waiting for whatever the man is going to choose. Because he can sense it, that something's happening here. He just doesn't know _what_ yet.

"Richard, my name is Bruce Wayne. Have you heard of me?"

Yes, yes he has. And this is _very bad._ Because Zucco worked with Haly's on behalf of Don Bruce Wayne, which means Dick just killed someone who worked for arguably _the_ most dangerous man in Gotham. Dick is absolutely dead.

"I—yes, I have. Um. So are you...here to kill me?"

Don Wayne laughs and shakes his head. It's an odd sort of noise, humored but lacking the warmth people normally imbue in such a sound.

"No. You will be leaving here with me, however. I'm...let's call it _recruiting_ you, Richard. You tracked down a murderer, took the initiative to kill him like it was the most natural thing, your hands didn't shake, and your relationship with emotions is interesting and useful. _You_ could be useful. So I'm taking you from this..." he glanced around, lips curling in distaste, "...glorified prison, and you are going to work for me."

Dick stares at the man with wide eyes, his heart pounding in his chest. He can't deny that he's excited by this idea. Leaving with a man like _Bruce Wayne?_ Putting this disgusting place behind him, his parents' deaths behind him, and work for someone who practically controls all of Gotham? Someone who kills and steals and tortures and rules with a iron fist—

Dick can barely _breath_ for a moment, struck still by how much he _wants._

"You can just...do that?"

Don Wayne laughs again and gets to his feet. "Oh, my dear Richard. You'll find that I can do just about anything I want."

* * *

Jason Todd discovers he's good at stealing when he's six. Discovers he's even better at it if he throws in some acting at age eight. Discovers he doesn't give a shit about acting at age nine, and discovers he _does_ give a shit about beating people up just a few weeks later.

He...likes the feeling of it, someone's face beneath his fists, skin and cartilage and sometimes even bone splitting under the force he puts forth. He likes the dazed look his opponents get in their eyes after a good punch, likes the wheeze that weasels its way out of their throats when he kicks them in the nuts. He likes the blood that gushes from a broken nose, the blood that drips from a split lip, the blood that peaks through the surface when the skin splits.

He likes the violence, the barbaric nature of it, the simplicity. He likes the rush in his veins, the pounding of his heart in his head. He likes the fights where he's the clear winner from the start, and the fights where it's really touch-and-go for a while. He likes the fights that get broken up by the cops, and the ones where there's no one around to save them.

So Jason still steals, still shoplifts and pickpockets and robs empty apartments and breaks down expensive cars for parts, but the money he gets from that can't compare to the money he gets when people pay him to fight.

Everyone likes seeing a preteen beat up his opponents like it's nothing, and they'll pay for the amusement. Well, everyone likes it _except_ for the people he ends up fighting. It never really ends well for them. But who gives a shit about those morons?

He wasn't always like this. He doesn't _think,_ at least. Or maybe he was, a product of a career criminal and a drug-addicted whore, neither of them very good at their professions. Maybe life set out a path for him, to follow in one of their two footsteps, and that's where the itch in his brain for violence and strife came from, but Jason's never really been one for destiny. Destiny can kiss his ass.

He won't work for some weak ass crime boss like Willis did, and he won't be selling his body on street corners for drugs like his mom. No, Jason's gonna carve his own path in life, and he doesn't give two shits about what anyone else seems to think.

When he's twelve, he's approached by a group of guys who want to pay him to throw a fight. So he takes their money with a smile, and when it comes time for the fight he kicks the shit out of the man they were backing. Because Jason's many things, most of them not anywhere close to good, but he'll be _damned_ if he lets someone force him into being less than he is.

Losing might be the legacy his parents passed down to him, but he's not them, and Jason is a _winner._

Of course, the men aren't too happy about that decision, and end up tracking him down to _teach him a lesson,_ or something else super cliched; to be honest Jason isn't really listening while they talk. Blah, blah, no one betrays us, blah, blah, you'll pay for this, blah, blah. It's all the same nonsense. Who gives a fuck.

The beating hurts. The beating hurts a _lot._ Hurts enough that it takes Jason out of commission for a week or so, hiding out in the little flat he's renting under his dead dad's name. He doesn't dare go to the hospital—he's not an idiot—but when he's well enough to walk without every movement making fire lick at his bones, he breaks into a clinic and steals some pain meds.

They take the edge off, and Jason goes right back to fighting. Rage is crawling under his skin, the _need_ to cause some damage and pain and chaos like an itch in his brain he can't ignore.

Everyone there for the fights are regulars, one or two newbies that fit right in, and then there's _him._ Pretty boy, perched on the exposed beams above the fighting ring. No one else seems to have noticed him, and Jason only sees him by chance, glimpsing him when he rolls his neck against a crick and tilts his head at just the right angle to spot the hiding boy.

He's mostly covered in shadows, but Jason can make out the strong jaw and pretty features, the glint of an expensive watch around his wrist. Jason wonders what a rich kid is doing in this part of town, one that looks like that—practically begging to be taken advantage of—and even hiding out in a fight club. Jason wonders how often he comes here, how stupid the boy must be, how he's tempting fate.

Ah, well. It's not Jason's business, nor does he care overly much. The boy'll either get what's coming to him, or he'll continue coasting along. Jason has a fight—or two, or three—to win.

And win he does.

The blood pounds in his ears, the adrenaline floods his veins, his thoughts turn to a simplistic static. These few moments during a fight, when this is all that matters, when he is powerful and everyone else is weak, when he stands above his opponent and listens to the bell ring, listens to the crowd scream his name and proclaim him victor—

There's nothing like it. Not stealing, not drugs, and he hasn't had sex yet but he can't imagine it'll live up, either.

His parents might be trash, but in moments like these, Jason can barely remember their names.

The next day, there's a fancy car parked outside some random building in Crime Alley. Jason passes it on his way to the library, and his footsteps slow, eyes sliding over the gorgeous piece of machinery. God, it's amazing. Gleaming and dark and fast and _expensive._ Any piece of it would get him enough money to live a couple weeks in comfort.

Jason glances around. Street's practically empty, no one there to yell at Jason for stealing, so he sets down his bag and gets to work, crouching beside the right front wheel to work if off the car.

One wheel, two, three, stashed into a nearby alley. His heart speeds up with each piece, a rush that comes from the possibility of getting caught, of the owner coming back to claim their property and not being too happy with the street brat taking it apart.

One wheel, two, three, and then a voice behind him says, "Do you know whose car that is?"

Jason wheels around, startled—not many people can manage to sneak up on him—and sees the boy from the fight ring the other day, the one who had been hiding in the rafters. Up close, Jason can see that the boy's a few years older than him, maybe mid-teens. He's dressed in clothing that probably costs more than an entire year of Jason's rent, and his blue eyes are sharp as he examines Jason on the ground, posture casual. There's no anger in his expression either, just simple curiosity.

So after a moment to calm himself down—he can take this rich boy easily, especially when the kid's alone—Jason turns back to the car and starts working on the fourth wheel. He hears the boy snort.

"Nope," Jason answers. "Should I?"

Footsteps approach him, and then the boy leans against the car next to Jason, casually crossing his ankles, hands in the pockets of his expensive slacks. The blue button-up makes his eyes stand out, the black suit matching his dark locks of hair almost perfectly. He really is pretty, would probably make quite a lot of money on a street corner, and so very obviously knows it with the way he dresses to compliment his features.

Jason pushes down the itch to throw his fist against those features, see how pretty he is with blood running down his face.

"I mean, probably," the boy tells him, sounding amused. "B's really not a fan of people taking his stuff, and he really likes this car. He's hurt people for less."

"B?" Jason asks distractedly. He wonders what the rich boy considers _hurting people,_ how his daddy ruins people's lives. He probably knows nothing of true hurt. The itch flares, and Jason's strongly tempted to knock him to the ground, pound his fists into his face, mess up that mug of his, see if he still thinks himself superior when he's bleeding on a street in Crime Alley like all of the rest of the trash.

"Bruce," the boy clarifies, as if that in any way clarifies things for Jason, and then adds, "I think the last person who messed up one of his cars got six of his fingers cut off. One. By. One. He let me take off two of them, actually. It was pretty cool."

Jason pauses, hands stilling on the wheel. Something stirs in him at the boy's tone, the way he describes the horrific violence, and his participation in it. Jason tilts his head up, taking in the smile on the boy's face, the dreamy expression, the _pleasure_ in every line of his body.

"That so?" Jason asks, cocking his head. The itch under his skin rises.

The boy looks down, meeting his gaze. Those blue eyes are cold, empty, the curl of his lips vicious, and Jason wonders how he was ever unobservant enough to think this boy a random rich kid.

"You wanna ask me Bruce's last name?" the boy goads quietly.

Jason purses his lips. He doesn't much care for being mocked. The boy's smile grows. Jason decides enough is enough.

He pops to his feet, throwing a punch, hitting the boy square across the jaw. The boy doesn't seem surprised, and he _laughs,_ making no attempt to defend himself against Jason's attack. And Jason doesn't stop, hitting the boy in the chest, the face, kicking him in the groin to send him to the ground. And the boy groans with the pain of it, eyes rolling back, but still puts up no defense, letting Jason rain down on him.

Blood spurts from a broken nose, staining too-straight teeth, satisfying the itch in Jason's brain that _craves_ this. And the boy just keeps laughing, even when the sound becomes a little wet, even when he starts to look dazed, probably getting a concussion.

More footsteps, a shout, and Jason's hauled off of the boy, two very large men restraining him. Jason thrashes against their grip, but they keep him in place easily.

"Are you alright, Mr. Grayson?" one of them asks the boy on the ground, and the boy's laughter starts to taper off as he catches his breath, still grinning. He nods, and makes no attempt to pull himself out of the dirty puddle Jason threw him into.

Another pair of footsteps approach them, and Jason looks over to see a man that looks vaguely familiar, dressed just as expensively at the boy on the ground, an air about him that commands respect. He takes in the scene with a placid expression, sending a critical gaze over Jason's form, something distasteful in the way his lips twist, and then to the boy on the ground.

"Is there any particular _reason_ you let him beat you up, Richard?" he asks, somehow managing to sound like he needs an answer and like he already knows what it's going to be. "I didn't teach you to defend yourself so that you could _allow_ yourself to be harmed."

The boy grins up at the man, head tilting back, and says, "He's the fighter I told you about." The man cocks an eyebrow. "And he stole three tires from the Bentley." The other eyebrow goes up to meet the first, and the glance the man sends Jason is far more appraising than it was before. Jason swallows. "Can we keep him?"

"I'm not a dog," Jason snarls, indignant.

"No," the boy agrees, still with that fucking smile, "but that's okay. We'll keep you anyway."

The man looks like he wants to sigh or roll his eyes, but is far too dignified for that. Instead he gestures towards the car. "You're going to put the wheels back on the car," he tells Jason, "and then we'll talk about where to go from here. Dick, get up."

The boy does as he's told, stretching, cracking his neck. Jason doesn't understand how he manages to look so put together when he's so _obviously_ injured, so _obviously_ a mess, but Jason—there's something in his eyes, something bright and violent and hungry, that Jason can relate to. He...he feels that, all the time, the itch under his skin. He wants to know if the boy feels it, if violence sets his body buzzing the way it does Jason's.

"And if I don't?" Jason can't resist challenging, dragging his attention away from the boy and to the man clearly in charge.

The man stares at him for a moment before a small, cruel smile creeps across his lips. "You clearly don't know who I am," he says, "or you _really_ woudn't be asking me that question."

"Wayne," the boy supplies, smirking. "His last name is _Wayne."_

Jason's a born Gothamite. He knows the Wayne name. He knows how fucking _stupid_ that makes everything he's just done.

"Right," Jason mutters. "Lemme go, you stupid lugs; I have a car to fix." A nod from Wayne has them releasing their grip on Jason, and the man smiles, pleased, when Jason heads to go grab the tires.

"We're so keeping you," the boy says, a promise and a threat all wrapped into one, and strangely enough, it makes all the tension seep out of Jason's body.

"We'll see who keeps who," Jason shoots back, always one to be contrary, and the smile the boy directs at him is vicious and blood-thirsty and curious and everything Jason himself feels in this moment.

"I look forward to it."

* * *

Tim Drake plans his father's death quite meticulously.

His mother's death, when he was ten, was rather the opposite, a split-second decision to take her life when he saw her perched precariously on the top of the stairs, arm stretching up to correct a crooked painting that must've been bothering her. Pushing her took barely any effort at all. Watching her fall and listening to the crunch of her bones took even less.

It was interesting. So was the blood that spilled from her cracked skull, and the way her eyes dulled immediately after.

His father, however, he's careful about. As Tim's gotten older, he's been more in the public eye, his father introducing him to the droll life of Gotham's elite. He's going to run Drake Industries one day, after all. He needs to get to know the crowds he'll be stuck with for the rest of his measly life.

Tim wants more. And that _more_ is going to start with Jack Drake's death.

Jack isn't a bad person, and neither was Janet. A little neglectful, maybe. A tad distractible. But Tim likes being left to his own devices, so it really doesn't bother him. No, they're not dying because they're evil, they're dying because they're _pointless,_ and in the way, and because at the end of the day, Tim _can._

Tim's a very patient person, so he takes his time. He's in no rush. He mingles with the folks of the upper society he was born into, and learns the ropes of the company that is his legacy, and pretends to be a normal thirteen-year-old. He's very good at pretending, very good at switching in and out of masks depending on what suits him and his needs that day. The happy son, the brilliant heir, the darling boy that smiles when his cheeks are pinched by obnoxious almost-strangers.

His life is so very boring.

The only interesting parts are when he sneaks out of the house at night and goes people watching. Tim's very good at not being noticed, at hiding in the shadows. No one ever notices him. No one is observant. If Tim chose to create a few more accidents, knock a few more people down long staircases, they'd be easy pickings; it's disgusting, how unaware people are of their surroundings. How they have that privilege, to not care about what happens around them.

It makes Tim want to break that illusion. He wants to show them all how stupid they are, show them the wolf under sheep's clothing that they oh-so-happily let wander around their ranks, none the wiser. As long as the booze and drugs and money keep flowing, right? Then nothing else matters, right?

Take Bruce Wayne, for example. One of the most powerful criminals in Gotham, probably on the entire eastern seaboard. Cruel, cunning, vicious, intelligent—the other day, three blocks of Two-Face's territory fell to Don Wayne with barely a whisper, his control so complete that Dent could do nothing but fold for him. And yet there he is, across the ballroom from Tim, a charming smile on his face as he flirts with a girl with probably negative braincells in her head, going by the excessive way she keeps batting her eyelashes.

Poor girl. If only she knew that flirting with Bruce Wayne could just as easily end with her death if his dislike for the farce gets too high.

(Two people that Tim's aware of have fallen to that fate. Both _"accidents"_ of course, and none tied to the Wayne family.)

A slow glance around the gala shows that yup, no one looks anxious about the extremely dangerous mobster standing in their midst. They either don't even know (a majority) or don't even care (a minority) or don't even realize what it really means (all of the above, he supposes).

God, people are stupid.

Normally, Tim would spend his evening at this kind of event people watching, and flashing his dimples at all the stupid people who always make the same comments about how _cute_ he is, how grown up, how much he looks like his father at his age. But that's not the plan tonight. No, tonight is Jack Drake's death, and Tim's too amped up to play his role properly.

Anyone who voices concern for his slightly-absent disposition is easily satisfied by the excuse that he simply isn't feeling well.

Jack is currently talking to some business partners, a champagne glass in his hand that he waves around as his hands move, emphasizing whatever it is he's saying. Tim keeps an eye on him at all times, and his heart begins to speed up just a smidge when Jack eventually begins to wander over to the bar.

Tim knows what Jack will ask for, because he knows his father. And he knows what the bartender will put in the drink, because she has a drug problem and a chip on her shoulder and didn't even bat an eye when Tim handed her the vile and ten thousand dollars to put it in the most expensive bottle of scotch she has on hand, the brand that no one else really drinks at these things, but is stocked simply because one of their highest donors drinks it.

The bartender pours the glass, hands it over. Jack takes a sip, and Tim starts the countdown in his head. It'll look like a heart attack. With the way Jack's been ignoring his doctor-mandated diet, no one will be surprised.

But—wait, no. Someone else is at the bar, pointing at Jack and asking for a glass of whatever that is. The bartender hesitates—because she knows something's wrong with it, she knows—but the boy asking isn't one you say no to, she's from East End she knows that, so with a jerky movement she's handing over a glass—

No. _No._ Because see, Tim doesn't mind a little collateral damage. It's...messy, he's not a fan, and it makes Jack's death look more suspicious, but Tim can work around that, pin the deaths on someone else. But he can't be responsible for this boy's death. Tim will—Tim will be _killed_ because they're smart enough to trace it back to him, and his death will be _painful,_ and he still has so much to accomplish in life, he can't die at age thirteen—

Tim is across the room faster than he's ever moved.

"Stop," he says forcefully, reaching Jason Todd's side just as the boy is raising the drink to his lips.

The boy pauses, eyes sliding over to Tim, eyes sharp and critical. He lowers the glass and puts it on the bartop, turning to look at Tim more fully, and says, "Excuse me?"

Tim swallows. You don't say _stop_ to a person like Jason Todd. Jason Todd is Bruce Wayne's son, is Dick Grayson's brother, is a murderer and a thief and has killed people for lesser offenses, Tim knows because he _listens,_ he pays attention. And here Tim is, keeping the boy from enjoying an expensive glass of scotch.

"You can't drink that," Tim says. What the fuck is he supposed to do here? He's worked to keep himself out of Don Wayne's attention, to not be noticed by that family. Being noticed by them is never good, no matter what their adoring fans seem to think.

Jason's eyebrows raise. "Yeah?" he says, cocking his head in challenge. Christ, he's big. "And why's that?" His eyes flick outward, in the direction where Tim knows Jack is. "Your dad seems to be enjoying his glass quite a bit; you think I'm not good enough for this bottle?"

Tim wonders how many people have been killed for _daring_ to call Jason Todd street trash. How many by the boy's hand himself, and how many by his protective big brother's.

"No," Tim says, shaking his head, because he'd be stupid to say otherwise, and because it's true. Jason Todd is one of the few individuals at this party that Tim can claim to genuinely hold in high regard, simply because he isn't so fucking _dull._

The older boy's eyes narrow, gaze dragging up and down Tim's body like he's a puzzle he can't quite work out. His eyes go again to look at Jack, then towards the—very anxious—bartender pretending not to watch them, and then back to Tim. His lips begin to curl up, fascinated and amused, his blue-green eyes lighting.

"Little Timmy Drake," he purrs, and if Tim were a weaker kind of person, he's sure that tone would have him shivering. "Did you put something in dear daddy's favorite scotch?"

Tim swallows. Jason's smile grows, delighted and a tad feral. He steps forward and slings an arm around Tim's shoulders, ignoring the way the younger boy tenses, and then begins to lead him away from the bar, easily forcing their way through the crowd.

Dick Grayson is in the center of the ballroom, dancing with some giggling debutant. Unlike Jason, who seems to enjoy making people at these kinds of parties never forget where he came from, Dick blended in seamlessly from the very beginning, a performer through and through. Tim would believe the show, if he didn't know better.

He certainly knows better.

"Dick," Jason says quietly, but it's enough to draw his brother's attention, glancing away from the girl he's flirting with to look at the boys who just approached him. His eyes flick from Jason to Tim and back again, and a curious smile quirks his lips.

"I'm so sorry, Angie," Dick says to the girl, and somehow manages to sound thoroughly sincere, "but I'm afraid my brother needs my help with something." The girl pouts, glancing at Jason, and then blushes when Dick kisses her on the cheek and whispers something in her ear, before pulling away.

"Hi, Tim," Dick greets pleasantly, like they're old friends. Dick's good at making everyone feel like they're his friend, like he's on their side. "What's up?"

Jason leans in close, bringing Tim with him so he's close enough to hear Jason stage whisper, "Drake here is trying to poison his father."

Tim glances around sharply, making sure no one overheard. But, predictably, all the socialites are too wrapped up in their partying to be listening.

Dick looks over at Tim, something sharp in his eyes that wasn't there a moment ago, something cruel dancing at the corners of his smile.

"Well," Dick says brightly, "we better get a front row seat, huh?"

He throws his arm around Tim's shoulders too, boxing him in between two very dangerous individuals, and then leads the three of them to the side of the ballroom where a bench is. It's a perfect view of the entire room, including where his father is laughing with some couple Tim can't remember the names of right now.

"So what's the timeline?" Dick asks once they're sitting, leaning back on his hand, eyes excited. Jason, on Tim's other side, braces his forearms on his thighs, waiting expectantly.

Tim does the math, trying to pick up his count again. "About four minutes," he says evenly.

Dick hums. He and Jason share a loaded glance. "And what exactly is supposed to happen?"

"It'll look like a heart attack," Tim explains. "He's got a bad heart, supposed to be on a diet. He breaks it all the time." Both boys smile at him, and it seems like approval, which makes Tim smile back.

"Why do you want to kill your dad?" Jason asks, cocking an eyebrow.

Tim blinks. "Well," he says. Blinks again. "Because I can."

Dick's smile becomes a full-blown grin. "My favorite reasoning."

Heart pounding, Tim wets his lips and quietly admits, "I pushed my mom down the stairs."

Two pairs of sharp gazes lock onto him, searching and excited and a little wild, and then they look at each other again. Jason smirks. Dick nods, mirroring the expression.

"Well," Dick says on a breath, "we have quite a lot to discuss, don't we?"

There's a cry from across the ballroom, Jack Drake clutching at his chest, before collapsing to the ground.

"You've got a part to play," Jason tells him, nudging his shoulder. "Go put on a show. Your starring role, the terrified, grieving son."

Tim stands, straightening the sleeves of his suit jacket. "And then what?" he asks.

Dick grins at him, blinding and deranged and not fit for the fancy gala around them, far more matched to that club they own, to the back allies where the pair of them kill whoever they like, whenever they like, drunk on the power they wield.

Tim thinks he'd like to have that kind of power.

"And then we take you to Bruce."

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Run Boy Run](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24884623) by [MistbornHero](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistbornHero/pseuds/MistbornHero)




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